


Due Diligence

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, Childhood, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:51:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel takes a brief trip down Dean's memory lane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Due Diligence

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt: "Castiel used to visit Dean as a kid".

Dean Winchester is fourteen years old and sitting in the driver’s seat of his father’s car. It is a quiet day, and John Winchester has chosen to bring his sons to an abandoned lot some distance away from prying eyes. Unlike his father and brother, Sam is outside the car, sitting on an old box and doing his homework. In contrast, Dean is making use of this quiet day to bring the Impala in tight circles and three-point-turns and defensive stops.

“For emergencies,” John says. “You got to be ready if I need you. Or if Sam needs you.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says.

Castiel is sitting on the dashboard. Or to be precise, an arm and his second head is on the dashboard; his first head is in the narrow space behind the steering wheel, because it is there that he has the best view of Dean’s face. Castiel’s legs scrape the ground every sharp turn Dean makes, but that is less interesting than the young determination in Dean’s face.

Dean is determined – nay, desperate – to please. He is driven and angry and afraid, and his soul pulses with the strength of these emotions. He has potential, but he has not yet started to shape himself; has probably not occurred to him that he _can_ shape himself. That will come later, but that is not what Castiel is here for.

This is educational, but there is too much of John here. Castiel needs to look somewhere else.

 

* * *

 

 

Eleven years old should be better, Castiel thinks. He slithers down to where Dean is sitting on a rock, whittling at a piece of wood with a knife that is too big for his young hands.

This moment is almost holy. Dean could be a prophet under an old tree, alone and awaiting revelation. The house that’s his temporary home is the background, muted voices contained within their walls. Dean sits here by himself, removed – _separate_ – from the rest of the world. He frowns as he works on his childish sculpture, and he is doing very well in avoiding cutting his fingers off.

Eleven years old, and he is muttering under his breath: the names of various beasts and the ways to kill them. His young mind is an eager sponge, his hands careful and methodical. He is not yet a weapon, but he’s getting there. Castiel slides forward to study him better, but there is a radio on the ground, and it crackles when Castiel brushes against it.

In a flash Dean is on his feet, knife out and sculpture discarded.

His eyes dart around wildly, unseeing of Castiel. His breath comes out in short gasps – fear, but not for himself. He glances back at the house, to where his brother is, to where they are supposed to be safe.

Castiel hums an apology and retreats.

 

* * *

 

This is a motel room, one of the earliest in the long line that will make up Dean’s history. John is on the floor, head bowed and hands clutched together: portrait of a man trying to hold it together. There are books all around him in a haphazard protection circle.

Dean is on the other side of the room, watching his brother.

This Dean’s eyes are solemn, dark. He hasn’t sharpened down his fear into something useful yet. He is still a child. Castiel pools onto the bedsheet, the television buzzing faintly when he moves.

 _I’m sorry for your loss, Dean._ Castiel doesn’t dare say it aloud. Not yet.

Dean is a child, yet his mind is a storm of emotion and unformed thoughts. His understanding isn’t an adult’s understanding. He doesn’t mourn the way an adult does. While John starts upon his new path, Dean is methodically sealing off parts of himself, while the rest of him he will give – _has_ given – to his father to remake.

_It’ll get better, Dean. I promise._

Dean’s eyelids slowly drift shut. Castiel allows himself to touch Dean’s eyelashes, applying just enough pressure to draw out and discard the nightmare of Mary burning.

 

* * *

 

The next stop is too early, yet not early enough.

Dean is smiling broadly, tiny teeth in pink gums, and for a moment Castiel cannot recognize him. A second glance assures him that that’s Dean, whose little fists flail in the air. Mary is moving around, alternately singing and talking to Dean, and Dean responds with approving noises.

Castiel settles on the carpet in front of Dean’s little chair.

Dean’s eyes flicker up. Castiel starts in surprise; the really young can see angels sometimes, and though Dean is special but Castiel would not have presumed. Dean definitely sees him now. He is curious and perplexed, but not afraid.

Castiel wonders what Dean sees. It cannot be the entirety of his true form, since Castiel’s tucked himself into the smallest size he can manage on this plane. What it is he sees, it has Dean bouncing in his chair, squealing softly.

His thoughts are little more than bright colors. He is too young, his personality primordial, he will change so much as to be barely recognizable in a handful of decades. There are many schools of thought among the angels – some says souls are the most pure at birth, before they have been worn down by life, others say it is only in living that souls reveal their true nature in choice and experience.

Castiel is making this journey because he wishes to cover both options.

 _I wish you could keep this happiness._ Castiel chides himself immediately for the sentimental thought. _You will achieve so much, Dean. You will love and give of yourself so fiercely._

Dean gurgles and reaches out.

When Dean’s hand closes over Castiel’s, the lightbulbs above their head pop in tiny explosions of glass. Castiel’s wings are immediately up, shielding Dean from the worst. Dean makes another delighted sound, eyes never leaving Castiel’s face.

 _Let go, Dean._ Luckily Castiel doesn’t have to pull because Mary’s abruptly there, sweeping Dean into the protective circle of her arms. Dean releases his hold immediately, attention back on his mother and unaware of what he’s done.

Castiel’s hand stings. He looks at it, and he is startled at the faint burn spread across the palm. It’s his ventral hand, one of the smaller ones he doesn’t use to wield his sword, and now it has an inexplicable burn in the shape of a child's handprint. Pain sinks into his hand, curling in deep like trickling water, up Castiel’s arm and into his chest.

When Castiel looks back up, Dean’s own hand is glowing faintly, but fading.

Castiel clenches his fist experimentally.

Just one more stop.

 

* * *

 

 Mary Winchester is in the hospital, panting and sweat-soaked. A doctor and nurse are at her side, while John Winchester hovers not too far away. He’s coming, the doctor says, you’re almost there. Mary grits her teeth and pushes.

Castiel settles in to watch. He inclines a head at Clotho, who nods at him in return.

Just like Castiel, Clotho is here on business. Castiel has had the privilege of seeing her work a few times before, but it’s still a sight to behold. Her hands are too fast even for Castiel’s eyes, the thread that is Dean Winchester’s life glowing like molten sunlight between her fingertips. She pulls and twines it, the length of Dean’s thread trailing off into the loom of the world.

 _Don’t touch it._ Clotho shoots him a look, and Castiel ducks his head when she snaps the thread into its final place.

Dean’s wails enter the world.

Castiel darts up, above the head of the nurse who is now swaddling Dean up. Castiel clings to the ceiling as he studies Dean’s wrinkled face and gaping mouth. Dean is a star in human flesh, his soul glowing hot and almost blinding in the small room. Castiel dare not come any closer.

 _That’s not safe for you_ , Clotho says.

 _I know_ , Castiel replies. _I just need to be sure._

 _You already are_. Clotho sneers, the clack of her loom loud as she readies to leave. _This was just an excuse. Off with you, this isn’t your time._

Castiel closes all of his eyes, but he can still see Dean.

Excellent.

 

* * *

 

When Castiel opens his eyes again, he is elsewhere. He is back where he started, Uriel, Hester and the others in front of him, waiting.

 _I've done it,_ Castiel tells them. _We're ready._

 _Are you sure_? Uriel’s always cautious. _Once we’re in, there can be no mistakes._

_I’m sure. We shall proceed._

Castiel turns and stretches his wings. The precipice is sharp, and he can hear some of the others murmuring prayers in readiness.

There is no war cry for this. Castiel opens all his eyes and tilts forward, diving down, down, down. He is a hand of God on a mission, he has been waiting for this. He will not blink when he breaches the membrane, nor will he jerk away with revulsion when starving claws grab at his wings. The garrison roars on Castiel's tail.

Hell won’t part for them, but they will cleave their way through blood and filth and despair. Castiel will lead them.

_I know what he looks like. I will recognize him._

And when he finds him, Castiel opens his hand – the one that now twinges in recognition – and reaches out.


End file.
